enough to go by
by synaesthesia
Summary: No promises necessary. Hong Kong, Tomoeda. Disease, the Empire, and aranged marriages. And love that binds through the distances erected by the heart. Multiple implied pairings.
1. lose sight of the ground

**prologue: a few good reasons to cry**

_... But I don't understand._

"The sunlight's all caught in your eyes," he said.

Fall had taken all the life out of the earth; the grass that had been a second bed in earlier months scratched and itched against her arms now. His palms were on either side of her shoulders, trapping her against a vast scarecrow of ground. Sakura didn't struggle.

"The shadow's are all caught in yours," she whispered back, her hands drifting up to his cheeks. They were cold to the touch. __

"Why are you always so hot when I'm so .. not." Sakura said through chattering teeth last Christmas, wrapped in three blankets and his arms. It was the second they spent together, and somehow she had convinced Touya to stay over at Yukito's, leaving the house empty and dark. Hindsight's 20/20; she's grateful for her brother's cooperation now.

"I read somewhere," Syaoran began, stretching his feet beneath the blankets to find her icicle toes, "that a boy's body is naturally warmer. Which is why girl's are so dependent -- it's the heat."

"Sorry, but that's not why I'm dating you."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." She nudged against his neck, finding the spot of absolute heat; he was sweating there and she felt a pang of guilt for having him beneath all the blankets in the house. "But it's a plus."

The t.v. echoed the 5 o' clock news: snow again tomorrow; blizzard watch in effect for tonight ...

"Then why are you dating me?" Syaoran asked.

"The same reason I want to marry you," Sakura answered. "The same reason you're warm when I'm not."

When he didn't speak, she felt for his chest through the quilt her father made the first year after her mother's death. Her fingers passed over the unbuttoned flannel shirt to where she could feel the strong drumbeat of his heart.

... It's because I need you.

Hands at either side of his frigid face, she found herself thinking, _Liar. _Now here she was, this _heat _when he wasn't. Or maybe they were both cold. She could feel the damp autumn ground seeping through her jacket and into her skin. All that was left of summer was dark ground and _death; _she missed the cherry blossom trees in full bloom, the hot July afternoons he put gardenias in her hair. Before, she had loved winter, always looking foreword to sleeping in by his side and waking up with the sheets pulled to her lips, to her unbrushed-morning teeth, and watching him watching her back in the way that made them both blush. They always caught each other saying _I love you_ without words.

Now she'd always hate winter.

"I have an hour," Syaoran said, lowering himself to her cheek where she found that his smell had somehow already changed. He smelled like Hong Kong again; he smelled like jasmine and Taipei, like the Huang-He river he said he and Meiling used to practice swimming in. Most of all he smelt damp like summer rain and oranges. Gone was the cinnamon tea they'd sipped out of the same cup earlier. Gone was the chocolate Tomoyo had given them as a late anniversary present just hours before; gone was the industrialized Japan. He was already a mythical Chinese legend. He was as distant as the Moon that his magic relied upon. Just as distant, just as cold.  
_  
... But I don't understand._

It's not my choice.

Yes it is. It was your choice not to say no.

They're still family, Sakura.

Aren't I?

I have to do **something**. You don't understand; China and Japan aren't the same. I have certain responsibilities. I have certain obligations.

... I know. I'm sorry.

Sakura.

I just don't want you to go.

Sakura, stop crying.

What if you don't come back?

Sakura --

What if you **don't come back**?

How can you say that?

I can say it because it can happen. It feels like it already has.

.. I'm not going to spend the next few hours arguing. My plane leaves this evening. I'm taking you to the park now. It's selfish, but I want to be with you.

This evening? --

You're the one I want.

How long are you going to be over there--?

You're my number one, Sakura.

All this time his hands were around hers and he was pressing her further and further into the darkest corners of their desire. Finally she stopped crying, or maybe he began, and he sought her body in a way that was new to them both-- in a fitting way, this foreign way; in a few hours he wouldn't be Li Syaoran, afterall -- the soccer star and quiet one in class, but loudest when they were all laughing. Instead he will be Li Xiaolang; he will be calm, distanced, but his presence just as interrupting. His eyes will become a different shade of her favorite brown, they'd slant a little sharper, a much different way than hers. In a few hours he'd be speaking fluent Cantonese. In a few hours the sakura roots would lose their hold on his heart. But for now they had each other. And Sakura naively believed that would be enough to erase the nights he wouldn't be beside her. Sakura believed it would hold her through.

Sakura simply believed.

That evening as they stood outside the airport's entrance his last kiss tasted like oranges, or lemons, or bitter, at least. His luggage was bathed in the cheshire-cat moon, and his back, as it retreated without him glancing back one last time, was under her scrutinizing gaze. Finally the automatic doors slid open and the light overtook him. Sakura waited until she saw his head bow in a way that told her he was crying before she turned and, without so much as her own look behind, walked the dim way home, careful to avoid the slithers of moonlight breaking the darkness.

She realized now she hadn't lied when she said she needed him. Without his always-warmer-than-her heat, her body was already frozen. Or else, her heart.


	2. bridges

The plot is still an ongoing thing, but here I am again with more CCS. Lol. Lots of drama, hits at fun, and some action. New characters, and probably some historical inaccuracy. But bear with me. ;

_Let's rearrange._

* * *

Alarm. 

Wake.

Shower.

Stairs.

Skip breakfast

(yesterday's bagel is showing on her side)

voicemail?--

_No new messages._

"Ohayo. Ja matte ne."

Oak door shuts,

she breathes.

Repetition had never been a constant for Sakura. Repetition meant normal, repetition meant day-in-day-out. Repetition was magicless.

Now it was her only companion.

**sakura: year one - the way it was meant to be. **

**DISLOYALTY: bridges**

_The sunlight ... is caught._

"Nothing for Valentine's either?" Tomoyo asked, fingers lifting to her brow to shield the afternoon sun. "Nothing?"

"Nothing," Sakura imitated. Another thing repetition bought you: boredom, breathlessness,

mechanic response. Mechanic living.

"Your letters aren't returned, are they?"

"No, no, nothing like that." Sakura fell back onto the grass, her shoulder blades shifting, burying into the earth.

_"The sunlight's all caught in your eyes ... " _

She brought a palm up to the bridge of her nose; it cast a long shadow over her forehead and her springtime eyes. Tomoyo shifted to place a hand deep within her best friend's scalp. The gesture wasn't a comfort; if anything it was, and contained, the direct opposite: it was an unspoken sentence, one of weight and thoughtful deliberation. In this silence after Sakura would mention news of him, there was always this tense, unspoken conversation. And today neither of them spoke for a long, long time.

* * *

I think my memories are vanishing. Where is that warmth he always promised me? The cards are silent and any divination reveals only the weather or my next failed test. I shut them up into the Book and shoved them under the pillow he always slept on. 

Everything seems failed now with him gone. When was he the one that decided when I next breathed, when I blinked or decided to smile? When did he control the beating of my heart? When did he control the good days, the bad; when did he become the puppeteer of _me_?

He's a tyrant and I want a revolution.

**

* * *

**

The wind was always so icy this time of this year. The backdrop of a very Van-Goh starry night added a whimsical smile to tonight's midnight; the moon was very high and very yellow; it was very bright and very beautiful.

And very grounded, and very worried.

"I see now why your brother has always been so wary of him," Yue's breath was cool against his mistress' forehead, each word like a sliver of ice across her pores. It did nothing for the lack lack _lack _of warmth; Sakura supposed she brought it on herself.

Why run to the moon, the frozen, white earth, when you want all the heat of the sun?

"There's probably some reason," Sakura laughed. It sounded bitter even to her.

Yue might have been fooled. He wrapped his arms tight around her waist and up they went; she ascended for the first time since Syaoran took the evening flight out of Japan.

Where Tomoyo chose silence to communicate Sakura's loss, Yue vocalized his worries: there they were, his moon-breath encompassing her like a winter chill, and cooling her dull beating heart. His fingers slipped beneath the cloth of her pajamas with each unfurling of his massive wings, and there was the shock of her hot skin there to welcome him; she found it equally startling to find his fingertips warm.

"No reason--" he said moments later. "There's still no reason. Why are you always put into these situations?" Was that his grip around her tightening her wishful thinking or her skewed imagination? "Let me help you .. " He flew to nearly dizzying heights -- but she'd been higher,

always higher.

_It hadn't been the first time he'd threatened her with leaving. Always for the same reasons. Always for his same, noble cause. Syaoran and Sakura worked best when there was an argument to mend with much kissing and much touching, a lot of heat and a lot of magic. _

Then go, if it's what you have to do.

Then go.

Instead it was her that took off, calling on Fly to help her get a grip on heaven. It had been a thickly clouded night; the moon was nearly full, but so much light was still hidden behind the pillowing cumulonimbus, the wispy cirrus. She flew above it all, flew to get away from the finality that if he left, if he left, .. if he left he wasn't coming ba--

--Sakura!

Sakura!

Was that him from below? From so far below? The air was thin here; the air was nonexistent here. She took a chance and braved the look down; was that him there, the flailing ant? The brown eyed, brown haired insect? In that instant he was just as cumbersome as any bug.

Just go. Just go, go, go if it's what you have to do. Stop breaking my heart.

Sakura felt the rush of wind on her face, accompanied with the sound and the feel of wings ripping, catching her off guard. Feathers stuck in her eyes, flew into her nose; she choked on white.

It's the blackest part of her memory, and she remembers nothing but that black, that omnipresent darkness. She remembers only that,

and waking up with Syaoran still beside her the next day.

Needless to say he didn't leave.

* * *

I am the very sakura I was named after. I bend easily. I bruise easily. 

But I come back anew every year.

* * *

**syaoran's apartment - one year four weeks ago: syaoran **

_Mother, I can't, not now; she needs me more._

No I'm not choosing sides.

No I'm not backing down from my duties.

I love her. Yes. I love her, too. I'd do anything for either of them.

Don't use that against me.

I know where I belong.

Yes.

Yes.

_Yes_, I understand.

_  
_I apologize for raising my voice.

I apologize for arguing.

Yes, I am aware. But she's equally strong. She doesn't have to have my protection.

Neither does she, Mother. I love them both because they are both so strong. They don't need me. Neither of them need me.

Yes, Mother. I know you do.

Yes, Mother.

Yes, Honorable Grandfather.


	3. catastrophe

_You're in my dreams, what's that supposed to mean? These dreams of you._

**

* * *

**

**catastrophe - year 1, china.**

* * *

The clank of metal, a flash of light --

"Soft, huh?"

The dripping of heavy sweat,

"Not so soft -- " clang.

Eight pairs of crow's feet-slanted eyes stared on listlessly. The thought would be that apathy lay within the regal Li Clan gaze; they remained unmoved, but with concentration instead; the deep brown of Syaoran's family was a forretress of a look that disguised itself as a glance, yet proved to be an analytical, scrutinizing stare. It unnerved him; it _aggravated _him.

_It distracted him._

There was the rip of cloth, and a gasp as Syaoran's knee hit the tile of the training room. Blood sputtered, aflame with life, from the nerve-endings of his dermis.

His opponent kept the blade grazing the once-white tunic that seemed to grow, expanding with Syaoran's very essence. Yelan Li fought against her better judgement to stand for her son's sake. To end a fight was not a woman's place, and not her's, most assuredly. This was his battle.

And this was her pride.

"He hasn't seen battle since Kinomoto re-sealed the cards," an elder said from behind her, "He's holding up exceptionally against Lizhan. Considering."

"Lizhan -- of the Han line?" Another asked, mutely. Yelan's eyes sat centered on Syaoran; neither boy had moved.

"Yes. After the fall of their dynasty, a remaining few of the royal family retreated into the South Eastern region of Wu. The men left to fight for their failing dynasty, and from there the women and a handful of loyal eunuchs remained and studied in the Japanese art of ninjutsu --"

"Ssst," Honorable Grandfather snorted, "The Japanese."

"-- as well as taijutsu and ju-jitsu. Yet the Li boy is holding up."

"Considering," an elder acquiesced.

"Yes, considering."

Behind the adults and elders, a young girl's voiced echoed through the hall:

"_Take him out_!"

Syaoran smirked.

Yelan's brow furrowed, embarrassed.

Honorable Grandfather looked thoroughly annoyed.

Lizhan didn't move.

With a flash of the Chinese sun grazing off his sword, Syaoran dodged beneath Lizhan's hold, rolling from the tiled floor just as Lizhan sliced one fatal swoop down ---

Blood remained where Syaoran did not. The tile cracked ("Our best!" an elder snapped) and Lizhan's sword dug deep into the floor.

He'd aimed to kill, hadn't he?-- Syaoran countered in one brilliant flash of orange that reflected from his blade, and in the one second that the fight resumed, Syaoran regained the upper hand: he stood with his knee at a ninety degree angle, the other bent agilely behind him, his arms poised in mid-thrust, aimed at Lizhan's jugular.

"Finished!" Honorable Grandfather said, pleasantly surprised and suddenly pleased.

The Han elders looked around quietly.

"Not yet," Lizhan's mother said passionately. She smiled to Yelan.

Suddenly there was another loud crash against the floor as Lizhan kicked against Syaoran's stationary knee, and leaned away from the Li's cherished blade; Lizhan's dark hair tousled against his forehead as he swept Syaoran off his feet.

The Li sword clanged against ruptured tile. Syaoran let out and agonizing "oof!", landing on his back with his arms splayed, wide, on either side of him. Lizhan stood, his dark green eyes treacherous, with the blade tip aimed dangerously, slanted perfectly, over Syaoran's throat.

The girl in the back stomped her foot loudly.

Honorable Grandfather returned to being thoroughly annoyed.

"Finished!" Lizhan's mothered called. The Han elders stood quickly, for their age, and began the precise clapping to congratulate their eldest warrior. Lizhan seemed un phased.

Syaoran seemed pissed.

"It is done," Yelan Li murmured, standing, beginning the slow, methodical clap of her palms. Syaoran's lips pursed into a tight line, realizing suddenly -- pain. Pulsing pain. Lizhan stood, unmoving; it was an uncomfortable position, Syaoran thought darkly, to be defenseless at sword point. Syaoran, who had indeed become much more outspoken during his stay along side Sakura, remained silent: his pride was bleeding more than the deep wound on his side. Had it pierced anything vital? No, and yet, it felt as if his very lifeblood was gushing from him: _he had never lost._

When, in his peripheral vision, he caught the glares from his clansmen -- and his silent mother -- he realized it should have remained that way.

"Losing! To the Japanese style!" Honorable Grandfather commented. "What is becoming of China? What is becoming of the Li Clan!"

"He will improve," Yelan said dispassionately.

The young girl snorted elaborately. "'Improve'? Syaoran's fine. He needs his own blade, not that _archaic heirloom_."

Honorable Grandfather turned on her so suddenly the girl's long, raven hair whipped around her body: "You. .. _You _will act as a woman of your status should and _hold your tongue_. You are not to be heard. _You are not to be heard_.

"Do you even know what this means for us, you sad little wretch? That boy has lost much for our family!---"

It was quiet in the Empire for a moment. Lizhan's sword lowered, coming to hang loosely in his hand that rested against the jutting bones of his bare hips. The fight had been long, and the early morning sun had been warm; both boys had sliced their families' sparring garb to pieces.

Syaoran, sticking to the tile in his own blood, sighed as he began to lift himself to his elbows.

"Your elders are right," Lizhan said in such a way that did much to cool Syaoran's temper; his voice was icy and chilled, "You have lost much for the Li family." Aa, but the temper resurfaces,

"It will be regained," Syaoran slurred, engaging his quadriceps to lift from the smeared, shattered tile.

Lizhan only leaned his head to the side. Syaoran swore there was a smile slowly lifting in the edges of his cracked lips. But he felt dizzy with the concentration, swimming in a see of trailing light and visible sounds.

Meiling had wiggled free from Grandfather's fit of rage and found her way to her cousin's wounded side; Lizhan took a slow step back as her cool hands found Syaoran's wound.

She caught the Han's gaze.

"Don't flatter yourself," Meiling spat, indignant.

Syaoran's eyes were out of focus. Meiling's gaze snapped back to her wounded soldier; searching his face, she became increasingly frightened. Why had this gone on for so _long_?--

Blood slid down the wrinkles of Meiling's palm. Well, didn't Lizhan look _smug_, she thought. Her anger piqued, or else that treacherous fear, her mouth began to open once more --

when Syaoran silenced her with a breathless gasp. For a moment the clarity of the air was upon him, and he swore, as he caught a last sight of Lizhan's jade glare, that the overwhelming scent of cherry blossoms had permeated his entire being.

".. Sakura--"

The white of his eyes overtook the once-intense brown; he became limp in his cousin's arms.

The silence was astounding.

And then she screamed.

* * *

Historical inaccuracy, yes. Lizhan also means something along the lines of "praise of strength". That's a loose translation.

Well? ; R&R.


	4. drought

_.. These dreams._

**

* * *

**

**you didn't think - catastrophe pt. 2 - drought**

**

* * *

**

"This is insane. I know it's medicinal, I know it's _tradition_, but he needs the modern _machinery _-- " "This is insane. I know it's medicinal, I know it's , but he needs the modern -- "

"Hush," Yelan snapped suddenly. It was the most emotion Meiling had seen from her aunt since the spar began. It both frightened and angered her.

She was quiet for only a moment.

"Tradition. Tradition, tradition," Meiling averted her gaze as one of the designated nurses of the Empire laid their hands over Syaoran's now bare chest. Her own fingers clenched against her breast, and she could feel the beating of her anxious heart vibrating through her bones, deep into the marrow, down to the nerves of her skin. Thump _thump _--

"It is deeper than we suspected," The nurse, Xianan, said slowly. "Han was very precise. He was aiming for Xiaolang's left kidney."

"Syaoran was too quick," Meiling said, red gaze returning to the stilled warrior. "But not quick enough."

"No, not quick enough," Xianan echoed.

"That _sword_--" Meiling slammed her palm against a tray of ginger root and cinnamon. "It was too heavy. These _traditions _-- they'll kill him!"

Suddenly, Honorable Grandfather burst into the room.

"Is he dying?" He asked hurriedly. Sweat gathered on the line of distress in his brow.

"No---" Yelan murmured.

"Just as well. Make sure he doesn't." And as soon as he'd entered, Honorable Grandfather was gone. Meiling gaped.

Yelan moved silently to her son's side. His breathing was shallow, erratic; she laid a finger to his red lips, and they parted only slightly as he took in one deep inhale.

Yelan's eyes drifted close -- slowly -- as Xianan fluttered carefully over Syaoran's stilled body.

_What kind of life have I offered you?

* * *

_

_... I dreamt of Japan. _

I dreamt of her.

.. kura.

Sakura.

* * *

Was it summer? The heat was astounding. Syaoran lifted his palms to his forehead, head swimming, dizzy; he felt blinded. As his vision cleared, the bright supernova sun lessening from intense white to a soft brightness, he saw her standing there off against the distance of ages. Her back was against a tall blooming cherry tree.

She smiled gently.

"I was waiting for you," Sakura said, soft as the touch of silk, "I've been waiting for a while."

"... I'm sorry," he said, taking a step toward her.

"I suppose I mean to say I will be waiting--" Sakura let her chin fall as he neared.

"I know," Syaoran said, a little unsure -- "I still have things .. to do. In China."

She lifted her eyes.

The sun began to set, night rolling in with precision: a full moon replaced the blaze of a July sun. The sakura tree's cherry blooms looked purple in the moonlight. Her eyes were murky.

She quietly lifted her fingers to his chin; her touch surprised him, and even more so, he found himself leaning in to her. The walls they'd erected to contain the reservoir of feeling -- of feeling and of feeling alone -- slowly split, and he crushed himself against her with all the intensity of a boy who'd been separated from a girl for far too long. The boy and the girl, always.

He found her intensely warm.

Her palms flattened against his back; she sighed, pressed him closer. The quiet stillness of their love was overpowering, reassuring. She felt like a star in his arms. He breathed her in, took her in to him, letting her fill his senses, his lungs; Sakura, bringing oxygen in to his blood.

The moon began to wane. The air grew thicker.

"I won't hate you," she said suddenly.

And then her body collapsed in to a flurry of sakura petals.

* * *

He awoke four days later with the feeling that he'd been crushed between two very large concrete slabs; his ribs were sore, and his mind hurt. His head hurt. 

When his eyes opened, he found Meiling glaring intently at him, her eyes crossing with concentration.

Syaoran's mouth grew slack.

"... Not pleasant," he murmured. Was that really his voice?

"No? Try convincing all of the Li Empire that modern technology is, well, _modern _and that it works better than some root-soil potion," Meiling grinned sheepishly and leaned back from him. She lifted a hand to his bed and patted the comforter. "The nurse finally listened to me. And behold," she paused, letting her fingers flutter dramatically in the air, "you live."

"I wouldn't call this living," Syaoran groaned, gripping his stomach and he made a poor attempt to sit up. He managed, if only to have Meiling slowly lean forward and press him back down.

"Ah-ah," She said, "doctor's orders. You can't move. That pompous Han idiot caught a muscle right here --" Meiling poked against his side, and he chortled out a yelp, " .. And it needs to heal a little."

Syaoran's brow furrowed and his eyes shut tightly.

_Han._

Mean eyes, big sword. Brings back memories.

".. What has Grandfather said?" Syaoran murmured, eyes opening to catch Meiling's gaze dart from his.

Her hand lowered back to the bed, where he saw her knuckles grow white. "Who cares," she said quietly.

Syaoran hand fell against hers; she caught his look, finally, and grunted annoyedly. "We needed you to beat Han. .. The Empire needed Han as a subordinate ally. And now," she shook her head, "Now it's either _we're _that ally for them or --"

"Grandfather won't allow the Empire to be second-best to _anything_," Syaoran ground out to himself, "to anyone. All or nothing."

Meiling laughed uncertainly, "Not quite."

"What?"

"He decided on a partnership."

"... What?"

"Grandfather decided that we'll go into a partnership. The Han line was accepting."

Syaoran drew himself forward -- and when she tried to push him down, he grabbed her hand; Meiling looked up, ashamed. She smiled weakly.

"A partnership," Syaoran said. "A _partnership_."

".. A marriage," she whispered.

"You're not serious, Meiling."

She ruffled.

"You knew what would happen if we didn't win! If we didn't establish some sort of superiority! This is my chance to do something for this damned Clan. All I've done this far is be a _woman_."

"I'll fight him again," he said simply.

"You'll be cut down again," she hissed, "Or killed."

He clicked his tongue, hair moving like a lion's mane as he quickly looked aside. "You can't marry him."

"Actually, it's pretty _simple_. Simple ceremony. Both sides just want the union, so it will be painl--"

"Shut up," Syaoran snapped, "You're not marrying him."

"Why not?" Meiling cried out, equally upset. "There a better offer?"

He lifted his eyes; the grip that had remained against her arm loosened gently. His fingers fell back against the cotton bedspread.

She stood quickly, turned, and stormed toward the door.

But she stopped just as her hand reached to the doorknob.

"You know what else is 'not pleasant'?" She asked coolly.

"Being called the name of someone you'll always love more than me."

And the door slammed.


End file.
